The Rise of VENOM, part I
by Cory Tucholski
Summary: The first chapter of a dark, gritty reboot of MASK. VENOM begins its reign of terror in San Francisco and authorities are helpless to stop the mayhem. Still distraught over his brother's mysterious death, will Matt Trakker swallow his grief and use his brother's remaining notes to launch a counterstrike? Or will VENOM's campaign of terror force the United States into submission?
1. Chapter 1

SAN FRANCISCO, CA - MAY 27, 2013

It was unbelievably hot for this Memorial Day Parade, and Kelly was glad she had chosen the powder blue spaghetti-strap top with her too-short-for-mom's comfort jean shorts. This was originally for the visual delight of her date, but it turned out to be a smart decision on another level.

Her date, Zack, was really cute – but not her normal type. He was blond, but not all that athletic. He always overdressed with nice slacks and a stylish polo. He never wore jeans. Kelly preferred the athletic, jock type; Neanderthals in gym shorts.

But Zack won her over when he talked about a "reboot" of _Saved by the Bell_.

Lining both sides of the street, the crowd watches as current servicemen and reservists march. Some have built floats, while most are content to put on a display of precision drilling.

Kelly finally wiped the sweat away. Man, it's a hot one today!

She and Zack positioned themselves on the waterfront at an T-junction. Here, the parade hangs a left and continues down the waterfront. Kelly faces the parade route, where she can watch the backs of the soldiers march to the next destination after they put on the choreographed display at the corner. Behind her, the street is open, but little traffic comes this way. There'd be no point; after all, the cars couldn't drive _into_ the parade route!

A couple of San Francisco police officers stand at each side of the barricade.

"This was a cool idea," Kelly half-shouted over the fanfare of the young soldiers' routine on the street and the din of the crowd watching. She interlocked her fingers with Zack's. She had turned him down when he first asked her to come today. But his unique approach made her think twice.

"I think you should reconsider that no," he had said.

"Why would I do that?"

"In an age of reboots," he had said, "it's time someone took on _Saved by the Bell_." She didn't get it at first.

Now she inched closer to him, pushing her body into his. Zack didn't protest. What guy would?

_Saved by the Bell_ had been one of her favorite shows growing up, even though it was all reruns by then. She was also accustomed to seeing hit shows from the past get "rebooted" as a movie or an updated TV series. Her brain must have been addled by dating too many jocks, and not enough smart boys. That's the only explanation for why she didn't get the joke.

"What?" She had stopped in the hallway, and turned to face him. She was totally puzzled.

"You're Kelly. I'm Zack. Get it? We can write our own reboot of _Saved by the Bell_ with _our_ relationship."

She burst into laughter. It's sexy to a girl when a guy makes her laugh like that. So she agreed to come to the Memorial Day Parade with him.

As more soldiers marched away from Kelly, a black Ford Bronco stopped at the intersection behind them, its turn signal indicating it would turn toward the parade route. One of the cops snapped to attention and spoke something quickly into the radio.

Zack and Kelly paid no mind. Zack strained his eyes against the sun to read the program. "Next is the 44th Infantry," he said.

Kelly tried to crane her neck to see the next group of marching soldiers. Definitely a lot of old men, but she couldn't make out anything else.

"It says here the 44th were the first wave of the invasion of Germany during World War II. They helped capture Berlin."

Kelly nodded.

The Bronco started down the short path to the parade route. Annoyed spectators cleared a spot for the intrusive vehicle. One shouted something that would be totally inappropriate for a _Saved by the Bell_ reboot. The two police officers moved against the surge of the crowd, palms out.

Instead of watching that spectacle, Kelly thought about the conversation she and Zack had as they drove to the parade.

"I can't believe you tried the line you did," she had joked.

"It worked," Zack had said with a shrug.

"Yeah, but it was unbelievably corny."

Kelly wondered why Zack's line had worked. "Reboots are just a lame way to avoid having to write something original."

"No such thing as original," Zack said. "Everything's been done. All a writer can do is put a new spin on something old, borrowed, or blue."

"You don't think a reboot is just a lame way to get famous using someone else's work?"

"No, actually, it requires some thought. You have to make up new characters, for example. Like interesting people for the audience to fall in love with at the beginning of the story to lead them into the action."

"Don't those characters usually buy it in the first scene?"

"Yep."

Kelly pondered this a moment. "What other so-called 'work' would a writer have to do?" Kelly had asked.

"He has to create a new backstory for the main characters. You can use some of the existing stuff, the familiar bit of litter you leave in the hamster cage after changing it so the poor thing doesn't revolt. But you still have to surprise the audience."

In the present, a police officer seemed concerned with the approaching Bronco, even if Kelly wasn't. "Halt," the larger of the two police officers said sharply.

"Whoa, buddy, you gotta back this thing up!" the other said.

Zack watched the commotion caused by the Bronco pulling up behind them. "What's this idiot doing?" Zack asked.

The Bronco ignored the police officers' warnings and pushed forward. A man leaned out from driver's seat. He was bald under a red beret, and he wore an eye patch. He looked quite sinister, and he talked with a vicious sneer. "Just watching the parade, Officer," the man with the eye patch spat.

Both officers' hands touched their guns, ready to draw. The burly, bald officer said, in his most authoritative voice, "You have to back up, sir."

The younger officer with brown hair spoke into his radio. "We need back up at the corner of Main and 23rd," he said.

The 44th Infantry, the ones instrumental in Berlin's final surrender, paused at the intersection. They began their choreographed routine, simplified for old guys. Kelly's eyes were on the Bronco. Something was terribly wrong here. The butterflies in her stomach were no longer cute-boy-butterflies. They fluttered for danger.

A patrol car arrived behind the Bronco and a uniformed police officer stepped out with a bullhorn in hand. He spoke into the bullhorn. "You, in the Bronco, you must leave this area at once. If you do not comply, we will arrest you."

What happened next stunned Kelly, Zack, and everyone else in the crowd. Kelly first heard the _whirr_ of metal and the distinct _klak_ of guns being loaded. Then, a blinding flurry of motion she couldn't keep up with. The Bronco's hood shifted over the windshield and cannons protruded from the front bumper. The back canopy raised with a hydraulic hiss and opened to reveal twin heavy machine guns The whole vehicle rearranged itself like a malignant kaleidoscope, going from innocent to scary in the blink of an eye.

Like something in a Michael Bay movie, the car was now a heavily armored tank. Another man emerged from the top turret, taking aim with the large twin guns. He wore a malevolent mask that hid his face, though Kelly was pretty sure this wasn't Eye Patch. The new villain sprayed bullets into the crowd with a smooth _tat-tat-tat-tat_.

The crowd erupted into panic. Kelly tried to move away from the tank-thing, but she was cut off and trampled to the ground. Moments ago, there was a benign group of spectators watching a parade. Now, it was a malignant tidal wave of panic trying to escape death.

The police officers fired their guns at the tank-thing, with only the distinctive _ping_ of ricocheting bullets for their efforts. No bullet-pocks scarred the car.

The upper turret swung into position and sprayed both police officers, riddling their bodies with bullets. Most penetrated clean through, chewing up the wooden barriers behind the officers. The newly deceased slumped to the ground.

"We have officers down! We need medical to the corner of –" The officer in the patrol car never finished his sentence; he was flung backwards by a new hail of bullets.

Kelly pushed her way up through the crowd as another spray of bullets leveled the soldiers in the parade. She heard something... something from the Bronco that wasn't gunfire. It was laughter. The same hearty laugh when she finds genuine pleasure in what she is doing.

Eye Patch _enjoys this_. And that thought chilled Kelly to the bone.

"Zack!" Kelly shouted. "_Zack!_"

Zack emerged, bruised but alive, from a knot of terrified spectators. The turrets atop the Bronco swung again, laying down more gunfire and cutting down a few remaining soldiers.

Every member of the 44th Infantry lay dead in the middle of the street.

But that isn't why Kelly screamed.

Five shots tore into Brad's body and a fine spray of red covered Kelly head to toe. He fell forward into her arms, already dead.

Tears flowed from her eyes, sobs heaved from her chest. Just when Kelly mustered the strength to move on, she heard a car door slam shut behind her. Eye Patch had left the tank-thing.

She was rooted in place by fear. She saw now that Eye Patch now wore a metallic mask as well. It was dark gray with dark holes for eyes and a square mouth. Eye Patch's mask breathed a long line of fire into a nearby building, which exploded and rained glass, concrete, and bits of wood. The glass tore Kelly's face and legs, the concussive force knocked her off her feet and drove Zack's limp body from her hands. Terror and grief both came in one scream that was choked off with a sob.

Kelly bounced along the pavement as the merciless fire tore through the building. The driver launched another stream of concentrated flame across the street, and another building exploded with wooden shrapnel and shards of glass tearing at the fleeing spectators.

Kelly was able to pull herself into a crouch.

A shadow crossed over Kelly. She looked up to see Eye Patch standing over her, the terrible visage of his mask somehow smiling down at her. She never even felt the flames envelope her. A vicious red tongue licking at her in malevolent 3D was the last thing she saw before forever walking a long tunnel of light.

* * *

BOULDER, CO - LATER THAT DAY

Typical teenager Scott Trakker lazily flipped the channels on the 52-inch TV that dominated one wall of his own, personal living room. That was the advantage to having a multimillionaire for a father – the biggest bedroom _ever_.

Teenagers seldom watched the news, but Scott couldn't escape this breaking story.

In San Francisco, a Ford Bronco had just transformed – yes, _transformed_ – into some kind of tank and opened fire on a large crowd of people that had come to watch the parade. It was on every channel.

"... 288 people are confirmed dead so far in this, possibly the worst mass shooting in United States history," the stoic news reporter said as if he were casually reading a shopping list.

As images of the dead and dying filled his screen, as aerial shots from news choppers captured the devastated buildings and the fleeing crowds, Scott knew the same feeling that older men and women experienced watching reports of the JFK assassination, or the _Challenger_ disaster, or 9/11.

The feed switched to ground level. It was grainy, but a single figure was visible. Concealing his face was a grotesque, gunmetal gray mask. People scrambled to escape him.

"Here we see stunning footage of one of the attackers," the news man narrated. "His mask isn't just for concealing his identity ..."

The masked man looked to his left, and a stream of red-hot fire spat from the mouth of the mask. The camera jerked left to follow the flames just as they connected with the door of a nearby highrise. The entire building erupted in flame, windows exploding and shards of glass and splinters of wood raining down on the crowds of panicked people trying to escape a grisly death.

Scott was on his feet in an instant.

"Dad!" he screamed.

"What?" a faint voice yelled in reply.

"Are you watching TV?"

"No... why?"

"Remember those masks Uncle Andy designed? Turn on the TV... Any channel... Still think the masks won't work?"


	2. Chapter 2

In disbelief, Matt Trakker stared at his TV screen and watched the body count rise. The images of San Francisco on this fateful day now burned permanently into his brain in every agonizing detail.

As one perpetrator shot at innocent people with an endless supply of large calibre bullets, the other perpetrator blew buildings up with all occupants inside using a stream of flame from his mask. He saw replayed amateur footage of the soldiers of the 44th Infantry gunned down. They survived an invasion of Germany only to be shot in their backs by cowards.

A tank that Matt Trakker's brother had designed.

Matt had always competed with Big Bro Andy. About a year ago, Matt's video game had just hit it big and Andy didn't want to be outdone. So he had started to sketch some designs for a video game of his own, one with transforming vehicles and masks serving as power-ups.

Andy took it to the next level.

"It's more than a game, Matt," Andy had said, spreading blueprints in front of them on a small card table. Having just bought the house, the card table was all the dining room table Matt had then.

"These aren't what I think they are, are they?" Matt asked.

"I'm pretty sure I can build the masks from the video game. For real."

Matt shook his head. He looked to the older gentleman, standing stern-faced behind Andy. His bulldog features seemed to wear a permanent sneer, as if he were pissed at the world. "Are you filling his head with nonsense like this?"

"No," Andy said firmly. "_I_ approached Miles. He's like the guys from _Shark Tank_. He believes in the project, but was just as skeptical as you are. I won him over. I can win you over."

"Andy, you're asking me to believe that this mask," Matt pointed at one of the many blueprints, "will let someone walk through walls." Matt pointed to another blueprint. "Or this one will turn someone into Superman!"

"He won't turn _into_ Superman. He'll just be super-strong – able to lift cars and stuff."

"Because turning into Superman would be ridiculous," Matt scoffed.

But now, watching the devastation on the news, Matt wasn't scoffing.

"Shit, brother," he said aloud. "I guess your dream came true after all!"

Too bad it was someone else's nightmare. Andy Trakker would be dead before he allowed his masks to kill innocent people.

And if Andy Trakker weren't already dead, he'd kill himself now.

* * *

SAN FRANCISCO, CA - MAY 27, 2013: 30 MINUTES LATER

Cliff Dagger had never had so much fun in all his life. Just point the mask, think flame, and tit does the rest.

A stream of fire shot from his mask, pierced the glass doors of the building in front of him, and the whole building went up in nasty conflagration of flame and screaming people.

This was _awesome_.

His buddy with the orange mohawk was Bruno Sheppard, convicted kidnapper and expert bare knuckle brawler. Why couldn't the boss have teamed him up with hottie Vanessa? Why _this_ asshole?

Sheppard was standing next to Dagger now. "Now what?" he asked.

"Boss said that we force this city to surrender. Shouldn't be too tough, especially once we remove the police from the equation."

They heard the approaching wail of police sirens. "Right on cue," Dagger said, punching his left fist into his open palm.

"Okay, let's show the fuzz what we can do."

The two took cover behind their Ford Bronco, nicknamed Jackhammer, as the police surrounded them. They heard the clack of safeties being removed from guns. They heard the cocking of several large caliber rifles being readied.

Then, a voice over a megaphone. "This is the police!" it said.

"I'm shaking," Sheppard said in a whisper to Dagger.

"Shut up," Dagger cautioned. "Hear the man out."

"You are completely surrounded," the amplified voice continued. "Surrender, or we will open fire."

Sheppard climbed into Jackhammer, crawling up toward the turret.

"Get out of the vehicle, sir," the voice ordered again.

Dagger stepped clear of Jackhammer with his hands raised.

All firepower trained on him. "Get on the ground," an unamplified voice shouted.

"Nope," Dagger said, training a stream of fire at the nearest police car. It exploded into the air, carried on a column of fire. The car spun three or four times – no one counted, they were too busy taking cover – and crashed roof-first across two patrol cars.

Meanwhile, Sheppard rotated the cannons toward the line of police and opened fire. Already scattered from Dagger's firestorm, the retreating officers were caught in the back and ripped to shreds by the large artillery shells.

Dagger laughed as he trained another stream on the farthest car to his left. Like the first, it erupted skyward in column of flame, this time landing wheels-first on the street in a pile of twisted metal. Residual fires continued to burn. The police officers behind that car scrambled clear in time.

Now the remaining police officers were in full retreat, most on foot. Several had managed to scramble their vehicles and were accelerating from the scene. Sheppard gleefully shot at them all with Jackhammer's cannons, blowing out patrol car tires and sending them careening into the guard rail. Or, he would strike the police officers on foot, killing them instantly and tearing their carcasses up before they hit the pavement.

When the threat presented by the police officers had been averted, Sheppard stepped from Jackhammer and walked toward Dagger. They surveyed their handiwork: the skeletal wreckage of charred police cars, the bullet-chewed bodies of innumerable police officers, and a city – probably the entire country, by now – in complete and utter terror.

And submission.

* * *

When a maniac attacks your city with a tank, that is the kind of crisis that can make or break a leader. Handled appropriately, this situation will give you the mayor's office for life. Clint Broadway, current mayor of San Francisco, wanted to best that challenge. He adored the limelight, he craved the responsibility, and he set his sights on loftier pursuits than mayor of San Francisco.

This is the sort of crisis that could get him there. This could win him Mayor for Life, but played right it could get him the front running for President of the United States.

_If_ he handles it right. And he needs to be abate this crisis as soon as humanly possible with as little loss of life as possible.

A chubby girl aide handed him a folder. "Here's the latest news, sir," she said.

Clint looked over his dark rimmed glasses at the girl, waiting. She must be new. He doesn't bother to read these reports; everyone knows that! People get paid minimum wage to read this stuff and summarize it for him. He's a skilled executive.

"It's some satellite photos of the scene, and a couple of technical readouts on what the tank might be constructed from."

He bored a hole through her soul with his next glare. Did he really have to ask? "What _is_ it made from, dear?" he asked pleasantly, to hide his contempt for this girl.

"No one's really sure, sir," she answered. "It must be some kind of hybrid metal, or treated with some agent currently unknown to modern science."

Clint loved that his name made him automatically tough-sounding. His resemblance to Tommy Lee Jones (albeit with fewer wrinkles and not a trace of gray hair) enhanced that image. Named after one bad ass actor while looking like another. He commanded instant respect and a little fear.

"Thank you," Clint said.

The girl withdrew and Clint continued down the hall toward the conference room. When he arrived, he found it already packed with the expected bunch. Nancy from the City Council, some guy whose name he didn't know but was some liaison with the feds, a few of his hand-picked cabinet members, and several people he didn't recognize.

Analysts. They would likely bore him with the details of this transforming car.

Clint took a deep breath. He steeled himself up for a long meeting.

When he entered the room, all movement and chatter ceased. The people who were sitting dutifully rose.

Clint silently crossed the room to the head of the conference table, opposite the whiteboard. He enjoyed moments like these, master of his "subjects." He nodded and grunted, using his eyes to cue his chief of public safety. "Alan," he said quietly. Clint also adopted the laconic mien that actors like Eastwood or Jones typically brought to their tough-guy roles. This augmented the instant intimidation.

"We have lost more police officers today trying to take that thing down than in the last decade," said Alan Bilson, the director of public safety. The immense man cleared his throat. "The latest technical readouts indicate that this thing is truly bulletproof."

"As well as fireproof, waterproof, acid-proof; the list goes on, gentleman." This from one of the men that Clint didn't recognize. He almost looked like a stereotypical mad scientist, with wild white hair and out-of-control 5 o'clock shadow.

"Bottom line, gentleman," Clint said.

Silence.

Then, Bilson spoke up. "We can't deal with this ourselves. So the way I see it, we either evacuate the city, call in the National Guard, or appeal to Washington for military aid."

"Evacuation is out," Clint growled. "I don't want the citizens thinking that we can't handle this threat."

"We can't," another analyst spoke up.

Clint silently cursed her. Then, he continued as if she never said a word. "We should quarantine the downtown area."

"Consider it done," Bilson said. He hastily began typing a text message, presumably sending this order down the proper chain of command.

Clint reclined in the massive padded throne he permanently reserved for himself in this conference room. He placed the tips of his fingers together as he considered his other options. He was far too proud to appeal to Washington. He wanted to be known as the Mayor That Handled This Thing, whatever "This Thing" was. Asking for help from the military would cement a reputation as the Mayor Who Can't Handle His Shit.

And that left only one option. "Get me the governor," said Clint. "We're calling in the National Guard."

* * *

Cliff Dagger drove Jackhammer through the streets of downtown very slowly. He was a rooster asserting his dominance in this hen house. At the faintest sign of movement, Bruno Sheppard would rotate the big guns and open fire. The pair cut down at least 20 straggling parade-goers this way, increasing their already ridiculous death toll.

Cliff braked.

"What are you doing?" Sheppard asked.

Dagger shushed the gunner. "Hear that?" he asked.

Both men listened for a moment.

"Hear what?" Sheppard asked, annoyed.

"Listen!" Dagger said.

Moments later, Sheppard heard it. It was the hum of a jet, growing louder. Sheppard scanned across the sky from left to right. Then back.

"There!" Dagger said.

"I can't see you, you bloody ape. Where's 'there?'"

"One o'clock, over the water," Dagger explained.

Sheppard spotted them. Three jets, in the usual V formation, bearing rapidly toward their current position. Sheppard smiled beneath his mask. "Time to show them what this baby can do," he said.

The jets broke formation, and the lead swung wide over the water, lining Jackhammer up in its sights. Sheppard concentrated, the mask reading his brainwaves and acting in accordance.

The jet was held motionless over the water.

Sheppard's mask, Magna-Beam, could create and control magnetic fields. Sheppard imagined two invisible hands tearing a piece of paper in half, and the magnetic fields over the jet responded in kind.

As effortlessly as one might rip tinfoil, the jet split lengthwise. The left half of the jet was tugged skyward, while the right half was pulled toward the ocean. The pilot leaped clear of the plane, his parachute engaging as he dropped swiftly to the water. Meanwhile, Sheppard used the magnetic fields to disperse each half of the aircraft in opposite directions.

Sheppard and Dagger cackled in delight.

The second jet was in sight. It loosed a missile, which was predictably on course with Jackhammer. With a quick thought, however, Sheppard was able to pull the tip of the missile upward, sending the rocket straight into the air.

A faint boom was the missile exploding harmlessly, miles above the earth's surface.

The jet fired two more missiles. Sheppard turned the first missile away from Jackhammer and into a highrise two blocks away. A column of fire licked at the sky.

The tip of the second missile was pulled in the same fashion of the first missile. This time, Sheppard didn't leave the nose skyward. He pulled it quicker, turning the missile 180 degrees and sending it toward the jet. The pilot tried to eject, but he was too late. The jet blew apart in a fireball, metal and fire rained on the streets below.

As the third jet approached, Sheppard yawned. "I'm tired," he said. "No more games. This'll be quick and easy."

And it was. Sheppard thought of two invisible hands, on one the nose of the jet and the other on the tail. He brought those hands together in a clap, and the jet was smashed inward. One of the hands tossed the jet like a wad of newspaper, throwing it into the ocean.

* * *

BOULDER, CO

Matt Trakker left the sanctuary of his bedroom and drifted downstairs, to the basement of his mansion, to the workbench that he had put in this house specifically for his Big Bro. Andy could work here to outdo his Little Bro.

As Matt stared at the workbench, a single tear stained his eye. He wiped it with the back of his hand, and he looked, vacantly, at the blueprints still tacked to the bulletin board above the bench. There is _no way_ that his brother could have _ever_ made this work.

Yet _someone_ must have. The evidence is all over the news.

These blueprints showed a Ford Bronco with sliding and folding panels that, when deployed, would turn into a tank. It was christened "Jackhammer" in Andy's precise handwriting in the bottom right corner.

On another bulletin board, Matt found a blueprint for a horrific mask that would spew flames powerful enough to blow a building up. That mask was designated "Torch."

Matt sat down at his brother's workbench, which felt like an invasion of privacy even though Andy had been gone for more than a year. The tears were running freely down Matt's cheeks. This wouldn't do; Matt wanted to control everything – including his emotions.

He forced himself to think about the present. To fight the tears. He looked at the plans on the bench in front of Andy's chair through his tears, blinking to focus. They were mostly complete, requiring minimal tinkering before joining the completed ones on the bulletin board.

As he rummaged, Matt found a clever design. A Chevy Camaro, Matt's all-time favorite car, capable of converting into a jet fighter. Andy's careful hand baptized it "Thunderhawk."

Matt's severe face returned. He wiped his tears away. It simply isn't possible for this stuff to work.

So what? What could Matt Trakker do? Fly this Thunderhawk to San Francisco and take on armed terrorists himself? The SFPD had failed. The National Guard had failed. The mayor of San Francisco was probably calling for an evacuation and military aid right now.

Even if he had a vehicle and his own mask, what hope did he have?

Before leaving, he looked down at the blueprint for the Thunderhawk once again. Part of it was covered by another paper on the workbench. Matt moved the other paper aside to find a second handwritten note in Andy's handwriting.

It read, "For Matt."

Fresh tears streamed down his cheeks.


	3. Chapter 3

WASHINGTON, DC - MAY 28, 2012: 8:00 A.M.

The great oak desk dominated the darkened room. Behind the desk sat the President of the United States, Andrew Heyward. He carefully looked over a speech prepared the night before, difficult to see in the sparse light. But reading a speech quickly under less than ideal conditions was a skill he had learned in his many, many years as a high profile politician.

A bank of cameras belonging to every major network formed a semi-circle around his desk, vying for the best angle of the most powerful man in the world. The camera loved Heyward, an aged silver fox with few wrinkles and thick hair that lost all of its color but none of its luster. He had a large build and a deep, grandfatherly voice. Robert Wagner could play him in the movie.

A voice declared: "We're live in 5... 4... 3..." As customary for a television feed, the director didn't verbalize the "2" or the "1," he simply ticked them off on his fingers and then pointed to the President.

At that moment, the hot lights kicked on and the feed began broadcasting.

The President, looking grim, peered into the camera. Makeup covered the dark circles under his eyes, but couldn't conceal the hollow, sleep-deprived look in his eyes. It's said that men age twice as fast when they hold this office, and crises like this work faster.

"Good morning, my fellow Americans," the President said. He tried to sound reassuring, but he couldn't disguise the anxiety he felt for the country now that warfare had been completely redefined.

"Yesterday, unknown terrorists attacked the city of San Francisco. As yet, we do not know why. No demands have been issued. The terrorists have essentially seized control of the city, despite the best efforts of the San Francisco Police Department and the California National Guard.

"Our great nation has been invaded only once before. It was during the War of 1812, what some call the Second War for Independence. In that adversity, _we_ pulled together as a nation and _we_ prevailed. It was then that the world's stage took us seriously as a superpower.

"We once endured a massive terrorist attack, on that infamous day in September of 2001. _We_ also prevailed through that crisis. _We_ will prevail through this, too. Our intelligence operatives worldwide are working in concert to find the masterminds behind this attack, whoever they may be. _We_ will find out and _we will retaliate_. We prevailed the first time our shores were invaded. We prevailed against September 11th. We will prevail against this."

Here, Heyward paused for effect, deadpanning the camera.

"Our thoughts and our prayers are with the people of San Francisco now. May God deliver this fine city, and may he bless the efforts of San Francisco, of California, and whatever military aid we may give the city.

"Thank you," he said simply. The feed was cut.

The President rose and walked to the door, mobbed by aides and advisers.

"Sir," one young male intern said.

"Yes?" the President asked.

"The mayor of San Francisco has requested military aid."

"We'll give him whatever we have. Tell my secretary to convene a meeting with the Joint Chiefs as soon as possible. I want SecDef there, too."

* * *

The Joint Chiefs of Staff were the the chiefs of staff for each branch of the Armed Forces. All were four-star officers, but none were "in command" of an entire branch. They served as advisers for the President, the Commander-in-Chief of the military, for matters of strategy, policy, and action.

The most vocal member of the group, the one who acted most decisively and wisely was the junior member, Admiral Del Bruckman. Bruckman wasn't powerfully built, but he was tall and wide. This wall of a man embodied the term "imposing." An overachiever from very early in his life, Bruckman was actually commissioned as a lieutenant junior grade out of the Naval Academy, bypassing the rank of ensign.

The head of the Air Force, General Creighton Barnes, was there by duty rather than choice. As a young airman, Barnes should have been drummed out. Instead, a lieutenant showed mercy and gave him a second chance. As Barnes made a career out of the Air Force, he followed his mentor up the ranks. Eventually, set to retire as a colonel, his mentor begged Barnes to take his place as he retired from the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Barnes gave in.

General Ray Dryden was the Army's chief of staff and was known as "Study It Dryden." He was a handsome man; age agreed with him. He kept his hair color and his eyes were vibrant as ever, the brown even seemed to deepen with each passing year. His indecisiveness, however, was a constant source of pain for everyone involved with him – he _always_ avoided making decisions, usually by calling for additional studies.

To offset General Barnes's complacency and the over-analytical General Dryden was the mad and impetuous General Rod Baker of the Marine Corps. Befitting a Marine, Baker craved action and saw flag officer status as a bureaucrat's job. He's not a pencil-pusher and he never wanted this duty; he only wanted to be in the field. He is the most animated talker of the group, with wild, sweeping hand gestures and his steel-gray eyes are in constant motion.

There was an honorary chair for the Secretary of Defense, the Cabinet Officer that the President appoints to be in command of the military. Heyward had chosen a retired Army Captain, Erica Byrne. Byrne was an elegant older woman, still in possession of a fine figure and firm breasts that defied gravity. She chad blonde hair tinged with gray on the edges, framing her narrow oval of a face. This gave her a classical beauty, even for an older woman. Unlike Heyward, Byrne showed wrinkles around her eyes and cheeks, but the power she wielded usually attracted men to her.

At this meeting, Clint Broadway joined them by teleconference.

All of the Chiefs rose and saluted as the President entered the room. The Secretary simply rose from her chair.

"At ease, soldiers," Heyward said.

The Chiefs sat down, followed by the Secretary.

"Mayor Broadway," the President acknowledged. "I want to help you in any way that we are able. This is our fight, too."

"Mr. President," Broadway said. His tone grateful, but it masked desperation.

"What do we know about these terrorists?" the President asked. "We are the United States Federal Government for Christ's sake. We _always_ know more than we let on. Which one of of you would like to spill that information?"

Baker refused to make eye contact during the ensuing awkward silence.

"General?" the President prompted. "This threat isn't abating on its own. Whatever you know, tell us." Then he added sharply, "Now."

Baker sucked in a breath. "The vehicles and the masks were developed by an engineer named Andrew Trakker. They were developed under a U.S. Military contract approved through my office. I thought that weaponry camouflaged as ordinary vehicles would help us conquer enemy cities from within during wartime."

"Typical Baker. All action, no thought," Byrne remarked, almost to herself.

"Get Trakker in here right away," the President said. "He should know how to defeat his own creations, I assume?"

"Sir," Baker trailed off. He didn't want to say it.

"Sir," General Barnes cut in, "Andy Trakker is dead. He died in a lab accident last year."

"The Air Force knows about this, too?" Heyward asked, furious.

Ever the voice of reason, Admiral Bruckman spoke up. "We were all approached, sir. Some of us found the project too incredible to believe, and therefore did not want to back Trakker." He glared at Baker. "Others weren't so cautious."

"Trakker was the only one in possession of all the notes – he essentially _was_ this project," Baker continued. "Without him, I saw no reason to continue military funding. I think the private sector backers killed funding as well."

"Who were the private benefactors?" Byrne asked.

"Too numerous to recall. The primaries were that guy, because I think he saw it as a potential spinoff technology source for his space-travel tourism venture; the older babe from the show _Shark Tank_; and some new-money guy named Mayhem."

"You're kidding," Broadway chuckled.

"Miles Mayhem," Barnes said. "Like he was named by Stan Lee or something.

At this comic book reference, the group giggled. After all, this entire affair was shaping up like a comic book. Real, live Transformers invading the world. It wasn't funny; the chuckle was more for stress release.

"Have we vetted the primaries, at least, to see if they have any remaining plans or blueprints, or anything?" the President asked.

Baker drew in a deep breath and continued. "Yes, sir. As soon as I saw our ostensibly dead project alive and well and invading our shores, I contacted the primaries on that project personally to see if they retained any blueprints or prototypes. Anything we could use to discern a weakness."

"And?" the President asked.

"Nobody retained anything. The research, so far as we can tell, hasn't continued with private funding. I have some officers contacting the lesser benefactors now; hopefully something will turn up."

"Is there any chance that Trakker's estate retained records?" Byrne asked. "If my brother died mysteriously, I'd probably hold on to some of his stuff. Maybe the blueprints would be among those keepsakes."

* * *

BOULDER, CO - LATER THAT MORNING

Teenagers don't usually watch the news, but Scott was riveted ever since he realized that Uncle Andy's masks were the terrorists' weapon of choice. He watched the latest counterstrike be repelled by that black Bronco-turned-tank-thing as the doorbell rang.

Scott answered the door. On the other side stood a large, powerful man wearing an impeccable suit. He had flashed some sort of badge and introduced himself as a Special Agent for the National Security Agency.

The agent asked for Matt Trakker. Dad was rarely out of his bedroom these days. It appears the depression that started last year with the death of Uncle Andy had progressively gotten worse. Matt Trakker really looked up to his big brother, and had taken Andy's death very hard.

Scott buzzed the intercom for his Dad. Dad said he'd be right down.

Dad out of his room was a positive sign, but a visitor to the mansion was unusual. No one visited the Trakkers and this visitor was troubling. Scott watched reruns of _The X-files_ and the NSA agents were _always_ bad news.

This particular agent, however, didn't seem menacing. He was asking for Dad's help with the current crisis. The government knew about Uncle Andy's project, the agent explained, and thought that perhaps Dad could assist them in setting up some sort of countermeasure.

Dad declined.

_What?_ Could the depression be so bad that Dad wouldn't even help his country?

The agent pressed, but Dad was unyielding. The answer was definitely "No."

When the agent finally left, Scott marched right up to his Dad. "You wanna tell me why you won't help?"

"This isn't my fight," Dad said sadly.

"Isn't your – _Dad_, Uncle Andy would be sick over someone using his inventions to kill innocent people like that!"

Dad nodded.

"Is this how you want Uncle Andy remembered? As the guy that built the thing that let terrorists conquer the U.S.?"

"No one knows what they want, Scott," Dad began.

As if in answer, the TV coverage went dead, a blast of static silenced the two Trakkers. A terrorist had hijacked the frequency, because on the screen now was a chilling visage in the form of a midnight blue mask, with an opaque yellow visor obscuring the new broadcaster's face. He was dressed in a polished blue military dress suit that couldn't decide if he was an admiral or a general.

"Citizens of the United States," a computer-altered voice said, "I am the leader of the greatest threat to your way of life. A group of master criminals, of terrorists by your estimation. We call ourselves the Vicious Evil Network of Mayhem, or VENOM for short. By now you know that we occupy the city of San Francisco, and your attempts to release your fair city from our clutches have all proven futile.

"You won't be able to stop us, for the technology we possess is beyond anything that you can counter. Even your military doesn't have what we do. We are stronger than you, though we are fewer in number."

Scott flipped several channels with the remote control. This crazy was broadcasting on all channels.

"We will continue to decimate this pathetic country, killing civilians, and swatting your feeble military efforts away. You cannot stop it. We only ask for one thing, and the carnage will stop." He paused for effect.

"How much?" Dad asked the TV.

"It isn't money," the garbled voice said. Dad blinked a couple of times, reassuring himself that this monster didn't actually hear his question.

"It isn't gold or silver or diamonds or anything like that. We demand nothing less than the unconditional surrender of the United States of America. Like our namesake, VENOM, we will creep into the arteries of the United States and paralyze it from within. San Francisco is only the beginning. We will follow our plan until your President signals his willingness to accept our terms."

Another pause, and the camera zoomed in to his masked face.

"_Unconditional surrender_. Nothing less. Expect another major city to fall within four hours, unless you replace the US flags on the White House, Capitol, and Supreme Court with white flags. When I see that, I shall contact you directly, Mr. President, and arrange surrender. VENOM will create a military dictatorship in this country that will make 1984 look like anarchy. Four hours."

The broadcast ceased, returning to the usual montage of grisly images from San Francisco. However, the newscasters weren't babbling with unnecessary commentary as though the audience couldn't see for itself. They were stunned into silence.

* * *

WASHINGTON, DC

The President, Clint Broadway, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff were still heatedly discussing the situation in San Francisco and what could be done to resolve it. They were also attempting to assimilate the new information – a madman who wants to force the surrender of the United States of America.

An intercom buzzed, cutting the conversation short. "General," the voice said, "bad news. Matt Trakker has nothing that could help us."

Baker slammed his fist on the table. "Damn!"

"So, what are our options?" asked the President.

"Well, this might not be a popular choice," Baker said. "But we _do_ have one option that would eliminate these guys once and for all."

"I'm listening," the President said.

"Atomic bomb."

There was a long, awkward silence at that table.

"Are you suggesting that we nuke a major US city?" Bruckman asked. He couldn't believe his ears.

"It's an option," Baker said.

"No, it isn't," Heyward said, smacking his open hand against the table for emphasis. Then, he lifted his arm and pointed his index finger directly at Baker. "I will never authorize the use of an atomic weapon against American citizens!"

Baker made wide, animated hand gestures as he said, "Well, unless something happens soon, Mr. President, that may be our only option other than surrender!" He finished by folding his arms across his chest defiantly, daring Heyward to prove him wrong.

* * *

BOULDER, CO

I can't do it," Matt Trakker said.

"Dad," Scott said, chasing his dad up the stairs. He wasn't going to hide this time. "You heard that kook on TV!"

Dad hit the top of the stairs, and rounded the corner abruptly. Scott was surprised with his dad's agility. But then again, he really was trying to get away from this conversation, so maybe it shouldn't surprise Scott a bit.

After all, all Dad seemed to do lately was hide.

"I know you have the plans for more vehicles, Dad!" Scott yelled. "I've been down to Uncle Andy's lab.

Dad stopped abruptly, and spun to face Scott. An index finger pointed up, but in the general direction of Scott. "You... what?"

"I've been to Uncle Andy's lab. I missed him. I wanted... wanted to be close. To him. I saw his blueprints. I saw the other cars. The masks."

Dad took a few steps closer. The outstretched finger was under Scott's nose. "You stay out of my brother's things, you ungrateful child!"

Dad took a half-turn with the force of a small tornado and stormed to his room. His feet stomped hard as he went.

He wasn't getting away. Scott swallowed hard and followed Dad. This was going to take a bit of finesse, since Dad was already mad at him.

"Dad," he said, adopting a softer tone. "I'm sorry."

The door slammed.

"Dad?" Scott called, knocking on the door.

Silence.

"Dad. Listen. These guys, they're not gonna stop. You heard him, right? They have a plan. They are going to try to take the United States, by force. You know Uncle Andy wouldn't have wanted his inventions used like this. For... for evil."

Scott sucked in a breath. Dad still wasn't responding.

"Dad," Scott said again. "Dad, you've got to do something. Use the designs that we have down there. Help take these guys down!"

"This isn't my fight, son."

"Then _who_, Dad? Who's gonna do it?"


End file.
